There’s No Condition One Adjusts

It Was Buckley, As My Father And Sister Joined The Group And Listened To Grandma Lynn’s Countless Toasts, Who Saw Me. He Saw Me Standing Under The Rustic Colonial Clock And Stared. He Was Drinking Champagne. There Were Strings Coming Out From All Around Me, Reaching Out, Waving In The Air. Someone Passed Him A Brownie. He Held It In His Hand But Did Not Eat. He Saw My Shape And Face, Which Had Not Changed-the Hair Still Parted Down The Middle, The Chest Still Flat And Hips Undeveloped-and Wanted To Call Out My Name. It Was Only A Moment, And Then I Was Gone.

Last Night It Had Been My Father Who Had Finally Said It: "she’s Never Coming Home." A Clear And Easy Piece Of Truth That Everyone Who Had Ever Known Me Had Accepted. But He Needed To Say It, And She Needed To Hear Him Say It.

One Thing About Failing Repeatedly: If You're Still Doing It After You've Failed That Much, You Really Mean It.

Before, They Had Never Found Themselves Broken Together. Usually, It Was One Needing The Other But Not Both Needing Each Other, And So There Had Been A Way, By Touching, To Borrow From The Stronger One's Strength.

It's Hard, Because When You Talk About Process Or Your Characters Ruling Your Narrative, It Sounds Like You Have No Control, But Obviously You're Ultimately The Author, So You Do Have Control.